


Dance Me to the End of Love

by telemachus



Series: Gigolas zoo-verse AU [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Aging, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Parent Thranduil, Zookeeper AU, excited legolas, long-suffering caradhil, small Children, step-parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More of the Zoo-verse.</p>
<p>In which Thranduil tries to do the right thing. Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance Me to the End of Love

**Author's Note:**

> In my part of the world, there is a fairy tale about an old woman who lived in a vinegar bottle (???). One day, she rescues a fish, and, as is the way, it turns into a prince/king of the fairies (or somesuch). He offers her a reward - she asks only for a small cottage to live in. But of course, she isn't content with the cottage, and goes back, asking for a house, a mansion, a palace, to be queen, to be empress, to be a goddess (versions vary). Then the fairy loses patience, and sends her home to - her vinegar bottle. 
> 
> It's a story with a rather depressing moral - be content with what you have, don't seek to change your station.
> 
> Interestingly, its possible that the vinegar bottle is actually referring to the particular style of fish-drying sheds on the Kent/Sussex coast - or possibly oast-houses. Only oast-houses tend to be not near the sea, and rather sought-after accommodation these days.....
> 
> Link to a better version;  
> http://fairytalesandfolklore.com/tale.php?tale=656
> 
>  
> 
> .

It’s been a good day. 

No, more than that, almost perfect – as perfect as anything gets in this world.

Sunny, warm, but not too hot – first really nice day this year, and we have all of them home.

All the boys home – and not arguing, but no exaggerated good behaviour, just – getting along, the three of them, Gimli, ‘Dwar’s wife, and – and the kids. ‘Dwar and Jacinth have brought theirs, two girls and a boy, ‘Thwon has brought his, three girls, two boys. The garden’s as perfect for kids to run about in as ever – and, for the first time, I think, there was no whining, no arguments at lunch – so, this afternoon is – perfect.

Kids off, playing, can hear them well enough to know they are alright, but not so well that we have to watch every word we say.

‘Dwar and ‘Thwon are – for once – amicably comparing apps on their phones, Legolas is, as ever, draped over Gimli, and – and taking my new-found courage in both hands, I have dared to sit leaning against Thranduil’s chair, his hand, occasionally, touching my hair.

I suppose it doesn't sound much, after twenty-whatever-it-is-now years, that he will rest his hand on my head in front of his sons, my step-sons – but – to me, it’s everything. 

Funny really, it seems such a big deal to me – and to him – yet, I don’t think they even notice. Which, of course, makes me wonder why we never – why I never – was brave enough before.

How much time we wasted.

Legolas is bubbling away about something – he’s been excited all day – and, of course, Legolas being Legolas, he can’t keep it quiet forever, he has to say it,

“We’ve been accepted onto the adoption list – Caradhil, you know we’ve been talking about it for ages – but we had the written confirmation yesterday – so, now – we just have to wait until – until there’s someone suitable,” he’s smiling, absolutely glowing, and he hugs Gimli’s arm, and I can’t help but smile back, because I know it means the world to him, I know it’s something he’s been wanting a long while – and looking at my little one’s husband, I can see – yes, it matters to him too. He’s just been better at hiding it.

‘Dwar laughs,

“Little brother, you know you only ever have to ask – feel free to borrow any – all of ours, whenever you like – they love going to yours. Be good practice. And if you need references....”

“I’d say the same – but – you know how it is,” yes, ‘Thwon, we all know, since the divorce its – complicated. Not enough time, too many rules. He shrugs, “but – well, good luck.”

And Jacinth covers the moment, bless her, with questions about how long, and what now, and so on.

I wonder if I’m the only one that can feel the coldness next to me.

I hope so.

I don’t look at him, I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want the others to hear it. If only, I think, Legolas hadn’t said that about me already knowing – I suppose he will be hurt, again, but – he doesn't make it easy for Legolas, and – and I just see more of my little one, at work, and – he’s needed to tell me about every step on the way. Still, if only we can just – leave it – talk about it later, just us – I’ll find a way to put it so he understands – but – Legolas never could leave well alone,

“Ada,” he says, “aren’t you pleased for us? I know – it’s not through yet – but – it’s a good start?”

“No,” he says, and – and I find I must look down, I can’t bear to see my little Legolas’ face, “no, do not ask me to be pleased. The two of you – I cannot understand why you would want this. You know as well as I that it is hardly the best situation for any child. Accidents, mistakes, can happen to anyone, but to put a child in that position deliberately – no, do not ask me to rejoice over it.”

There is, I can sense, a beautiful hand gesture – as all his gestures are beautiful – towards ‘Thwon, and I, as he speaks of accidents, mistakes, and I wonder – which is the divorce, which is me?

I keep my face down, away, as the silence which follows drags out.

I suppose – I should fight my Legolas’ corner, should be angry, but – somehow – I don’t have the energy. Not anymore.

Legolas, forgive me, but – you have a husband to take care of you now, and I – I can’t bear this, this rejection, these shameful tears which I know will start all too soon – I can’t bear for any of you to see me like this.

I’m saved, even as I feel ‘Dwar take a breath, even as I know he is going to speak, and I – I don’t know how I can get away fast enough, I can’t bear to hear this, but I’m saved by ‘Thwon’s youngest toddling back to us.

“Want juice, ‘radhil,” she says, “juice now?”

And – she is little enough that it is perfectly acceptable to scoop her up, to walk away, still not meeting anyone’s eye, my face buried in her hair, and she – she just giggles, and chatters, used to being carried, used to being fussed over. As I walk away, I hear ‘Dwar start,  
“Fu – for crying out loud, Ada,” he begins, and I – I think, well, that is one thing I taught your boys that you never did, Thranduil, I taught them not to swear in front of children. Mistake I may have been, but I got that right.

 

 

 

Over juice – and indeed, hand- and face- washing which must follow juice, Poppy not being quite as good with a proper glass as she thinks she is – I hear all about Teddy, and how Teddy likes coming to stay with Daddy, and seeing Daddy’s Ada, and her uncles, and her cousins, and when can she bring Teddy to my zoo again, and – and can they swim later, and Teddy doesn't swim, but he likes to watch, and – what dvd can they put on this evening, and are they really going to stay here tonight, all of them, a cousins’ sleepover – and – on and on. She reminds me desperately of her uncle, of my little Legolas, when he was this age.

Answering her, and concentrating on it all, is precisely what I need right now.

By the time she has gone, I – almost – am over the hurt, which, really, is not so much. He is how he is. You can’t change someone, not really.

He loves me, he loves the boys, he doesn't – not really – think we did wrong by them, any more than he wanted ‘Thwon to stay with a woman he no longer loved, someone who he was unable to even have a meal with without arguing – just – he thinks it would be better not.

I suppose, if I am honest, I agree – it would be better not to divorce when you have children. In an ideal world, that wouldn’t happen.

But – sometimes, it does. Sometimes it’s the best option left.

For ‘Thwon and Carrie – it was.

These days, they communicate quite well, they are – not friends, they’ll never be that I don’t think, but – polite.

I keep my thoughts on that, keep away from the hurt in me that – that he truly thinks there was something less than – than right – about the care I gave his sons. Not perfect, I never claimed that, and yes, yes clearly they would have been much happier had their mother lived. Of course. 

But she didn’t. And – well, I wouldn’t want Thranduil, my beloved Thranduil, to be alone, so – I can’t imagine she would. I’ve always hoped she would think I did alright by the boys – not perfect, but – alright. – In all honesty, there’s always been a bit of me thinks – I, we together, did a damn sight better job than my dearest one would have managed alone.

They would have probably had it a bit easier if their father had fallen for a girl, not for me, but – I don’t see that it would have been better. I don’t see that Legolas and Gimli shouldn’t adopt, give a child a home.

At least, I can see reasons to worry, I’m not sure Legolas is really sensible enough, but – no, that's not fair. He is. Only – like all parents I suppose, step or real – I don’t like the idea that my little one has grown up and doesn't need me.

I’m holding on to these thoughts, much as I am holding on to the worksurface, clinging, one might say, not to feel the hurt inside.

I thought we were past this.

I thought – thought he had come to terms with himself, with us, thought – thought that the ring I wear – the wedding we have been talking of – really at last meant what I dreamt it would.

I hear footsteps, coming in from the garden, and I realise the tears have started, but – not much, not too bad – so I pull myself together, and when ‘Thwon comes in, I am back in control.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I should have checked about the juice. She didn’t have much – and we washed her up afterwards.”

He laughs,

“Lord, Caradhil, she can have as much juice as she likes – clever girl – I just – it’s maybe a shame you didn’t hear ‘Dwar jumping to your defence. And mine,” he smiles, ruefully, “you always used to say he and I only squabbled because we didn’t have anyone to gang up on, Legolas being too small – you were righter than you knew.”

I smile back, and try to take that how he means it, try to hear only that the three of them – my boys – care, want me to know they think their father is wrong.

I try to silence the part of me that – that wishes he had come to find me, that he had noticed.

He is what he is.

You can’t change someone.

At least, not if you’ve left it too late to try.

 

The day winds on, as days with children do, any undercurrents, any tension between the adults carefully hidden all through more food, dvd negotiation – not easy, ages from thirteen down to three – but, in the end we find something they all like, and, finally, they are settled down. By which time Legolas and Gimli, who have been banned from helping on the grounds that they only make things worse, only excite the children further, have wandered off out into the garden – and I am certainly not going after them. I know those two, I hear too many stories.

Thranduil has that expression I know so well, the one that means he has had enough – more than enough – of being pleasant, even to his boys. Still, for once, it is not my problem.

“I need to go,” I say, “I’m on night-watch tonight. I’ll be home about – three, four, with any luck. See you in the morning,” and I head off into work.

I wouldn’t have chosen to work tonight, but – well. Unfortunately, that's the way it is sometimes. I suppose I could probably fix the rotas, if I wanted, but – that wouldn’t really be right. If I want other people to work with a good grace, I have to as well. I never did when Legolas was little, but these days – I don’t have any reason not to.

Somewhere inside, I wonder if Thranduil notices, misses me, and – yes, I know he does. Of course he does.

Even if not once in all the years has he said it.

 

 

 

Coming back to the sleeping house, seeing the dawn light grow in the sky as I park the car and walk round to the back door – further from the room the kids are all bedded down in, quieter to open – has always been one of my favourite parts of these nights. Not the best though.

That is saved til last – the best – the very best – is always, as it always has been, that moment when I can stand, and look at him, at Thranduil, sleeping, and know that in a minute, when I have stripped, I will be beside him, that, perhaps, he will turn, not fully awake, and so more – affectionate – than usual, and – and make love to me.

I always called it making love, in my own mind, even when – when a part of me doubted that is truly what it was. Because – after all – I love him – so very, very much – it never seemed possible to me that – somewhere inside – he could not know it, could not feel it in my hands, in my kisses.

Even if it was only sex to him, it was love-making to me.

Today, today I am lucky – he does not wake until I am beside him, my arms round him, my hands running over him, and then – then he turns and kisses me, and – and oh how I love him, how he is everything to me.

It isn’t a mistake, he doesn't think that, not really.

“Want,” he says, and I reach down, touching, as he buries his hands in my hair, holding my face still for his kissing, “want. You. Now.”

I smile, and – and what care I for anything but this? I reach out for the lube, and – yes, it feels good, touching him, but then,

“I don’t want to hear where you have been,” he says, “what you have been doing – I never did – just – roll over for me now, I want to – to be inside you.”

Shocked, my eyes must widen, must show my confusion that after all these years of not wanting to, he is suddenly demanding – and even as I wonder why, even as I feel excitement, a stupid, excessive excitement, honestly, at my age, as though it is likely to be – perfect, romantic, life-changing – I am also hearing the first part of the sentence in my mind again, and,

“You know where I have been,” I say, even as I roll, obedient to his will, “you know I have been at work, and –“ he kisses my neck, and I begin to lose my thoughts, and – and oh please yes – he hums against my skin and I – I it is all I can do not to buck and cry out, the feeling of his weight on me, against me is so much, my voice cracks as I try to continue, “and I have never bored you with stories of it, never talked these mornings – “ and then – then there is no more talking, only ‘yes, please’, and ‘oh gods’ and ‘ah, no, not – oh, yes, that's right, oh don’t stop,’ and he – he must have read something about how – and – oh thank the internet for easy information because – because I always thought it would be – more difficult to explain – only – only it isn’t perfect but – but it’s a good start.

Afterwards, he lies on me, his arms round me, our breathing matched, and – and I think I have now all I ever wanted. He loves me, he has said it, he begins to be able to show affection in front of others, we are to marry, and – and now we have perhaps begun to be able to talk even about sex.

“You are mine,” he says, and for all I should resent his possessiveness, with the long years of not being sure still aching in me I don’t, I love it and I smile into the pillow as I make an agreeing noise, but, “no more of these nights out – I don’t want to know – I never asked, but – enough. Please, my star, I need you here. I need to know you – you don’t truly want to be out there with others.”

And the words make no sense to me.

I hear them, but I don’t understand.

Slowly, gradually, I begin to make sense of them, and – I feel sick. Sick inside that he should speak so – that he should think – what exactly does he think?

I shift, turning under him, and he rolls away, his face still hidden in the half-light, still turned away from me as I stare at him, at this man I thought I knew, this man I have loved so long, this man – this man around whom I have built my life for almost quarter of a century.

“I am sorry,” he says, this stranger whom I have loved so, “sorry to break our agreement, but – things are different now – I thought they were, yet you still go out like this. I will try – this – or anything – more than we have had before if it will keep you at home.”

Once again, he manages to disarm me, leave me stranded on the wreck of a past life, and I – I am not waving, but drowning in all the lies, the misunderstandings, the lack of communication, the assumptions, and – and I don’t know how to save us. Because if he – truly – has never listened to all the words I have said, whispered, cried out – then – then what hope is there?

What is the point of rings, of vows, of – of any of it – if still, he thinks our relationship is, truly, a mistake, and that I – I am regularly, casually, unfaithful?

Even as I am searching for words, even as I want to – I don’t know – cry, shout, scream out my anger at him, walk away, throw something – cling to him, hold him, make him understand – even now – that I love him, only him, always and forever him - that whatever temptations there have been, and there have, I would never do that – the door opens.

I have forgotten to lock it, and we are out of practice – we have not kept our voices low, not remembered what early risers small children are.

“’Radhil, Daerada, can we swim before breakfast?”  
“Daddy is asleep, and –“  
“- and my Daddy says Mummy needs to sleep,”  
“- and – and uncle Le-las has his door locked – but – “  
“- they said you swim before breakfast?”

Did they?

What little wonders they are, I think, bitterly.

But you can’t show that face to children, so, yes, of course, what a good idea, go and find your costumes, I will be down in a minute – no going into the pool room without me.

“I had best shower first, quickly,” I say when they are gone, and then, “I think we had better talk later. I have never – I told you this – I have never wanted another, never been with another, since I met you. This ring – it means something to me – it means everything to me – I – you know this, Thranduil. I run a zoo – your bloody zoo – there has to be a night-watch – it is work – and then I come home. Never anything else. Never. And now, I am going to go and occupy your grandchildren until you, or your sons, come downstairs. Fortunately, it was not a busy night, I had a couple of hours sleep – but I would be grateful for coffee later.”

He doesn't look at me or speak the whole time I am sorting myself out.

I go down, hearing my bitter words, words I would never have thought I could say. I never dreamt I could sound so – so uncaring of these children, as though they mean nothing to me. Nor so resentful of my work. 

But then it never seemed possible to me that he would say such things – mean them – suspect me of – of I am still not quite sure what.

And so – wondering if this time – this time it really is over. Maybe this is one thing too many for even me to forgive.

But the thought of walking away, leaving him, leaving my boys, leaving the grandchildren – leaving my job even – I don’t know if I can. It was bad enough before – and that was when I thought he wanted me to go.

I know I am stronger for him than for myself.

I don’t think I have the courage – only – it hurts so to find he thinks that of me.

I am glad enough to leave the thoughts and concentrate on a very, very silly, noisy game of water-polo. Sort of water-polo.

Eight children are enough to take anyone’s mind off their problems, I think.

 

 

It is, I notice, Legolas and Gimli who are down next, who take over, who organise showers, and dressing, and breakfast, and – and I think my little Legolas really is all grown up now, as he sends me off to “go and get some sleep, you look exhausted”.

Thank you, dear, I think, that is not really what I wanted to hear. But he means it kindly, and – and I am completely worn out.

I don’t know where Thranduil is, but he isn’t in our room.

At first I think I can’t possibly sleep, so many things going round in my head, but – I do – and it is hours later that I am woken when someone comes in and sits by me.

“I brought you coffee,” he says, and I smile, and swallow away my first reaction, my longing to say – I don’t want coffee, I don’t want you to bring me anything, I want your father to come and tell me he didn’t say what I think he said, say he didn’t mean it, say that – that we are not in this cold wilderland of crossed wires – again.

But – yes, my Legolas really has grown up.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, “I know it would be better if Ada had brought it. But he won’t. You know what he is – he’s in his study, sulking, I call it. I dare say you have a kinder word. I don’t know what’s happened – I don’t suppose you want me to – but – oh Caradhil, I thought things were alright now? I – you have been so happy recently. And he – he has been – almost warm.”

I shrug, meaningless, meaning only – don’t ask me, don’t, please – and he takes my hand for a moment.

“I think ‘Thwon wants to stay until he has to take the kids back, but ‘Dwar and Jacinth need to be off soon – that's why I came up to wake you,” he squeezes my hand, and then lets go, “we should probably make a move as well – I’ll see you tomorrow – there’s that meeting with the events side – and the new enclosure to open up – unless you want to talk now?”

I shake my head, old habits of not upsetting the children deeply engrained in me, and he pats me again before wandering off, leaving me to get myself up.

 

 

There is no chance to talk with ‘Thwon and the children around – the afternoon seems long, the evening longer, and I know I should be preparing to have the conversation it seems we need – but – by the time they go, Thranduil has gone to his study, and – and I am tired. 

Tomorrow, I think. It has waited this long, what is one more night?

 

 

We barely speak in the morning – I don’t know where he slept, but it was not with me – and – I am tempted to – to skip work – to spend the time together that we need – to make him listen, and talk, and – and sort this out. Once and for all.

But – there are things that need doing. 

Besides, even as I am wondering, the car is at the door for him, and,

“I will be late,” he says, our eyes not meeting, “do not wait up.” He walks away, the desolation takes me, and I let my head sink into my hands, but then, “Caradhil,” and I see he has turned back, “you were going to book a wedding date. I talked to the boys, yesterday morning – emailed you the dates they can all do – sort it out. I daresay we will both feel better once it is done.”

Not the most romantic, my Thranduil, but – from somewhere I find a smile at the thought – he does still want this. 

He smiles back, a little, and nods, once, then he is gone and I – I only realise afterwards that I should have said something, reached out, touched him.

He has never been one to apologise, initiate touch. The email will, I know, be cold and formal as if he were merely my employer.

That is how he has always been.

And – he is not going to change now. If I wanted him to change, I needed to ask long ago – but all I ever wanted was to be allowed to love him – for him to love me was only ever a daydream.

It never even occurred to me to wish for him to show it.

 

 

I pull myself together, I walk into work – no need to drive, not on a day like this, no rain, no hurry.

No boys to pick up later, or ferry about – no-one waiting for me at home.

There were days, Caradhil, I remind myself, when you longed for this.

Fool that I was.

There is, as there always is, a queue of emails, every one urgent, every one needing to be read and answered. 

I can summon no enthusiasm for any of it.

Maybe I am getting old – maybe I am nearly ready to cut back my hours – but how can I? How can I say to Thranduil that I am tired, when he – so much older – has as much energy as ever?

Absently, considering this, I look across the room at the window, I picture him standing looking out, back to me, and I remember his proposal – such as it was – and our reconciliation. I smile, and then the words of yesterday hit me again, and my face – my face aches with tears unshed.

But even as I sit here, I see his face, his body, his movements, and I compare them over the years. No, I think, he does not have as much energy as he used – he is tired – he is aging – he simply – chooses to put his work first.

And a voice in my head says – marry him soon, Caradhil. He is not immortal. Whatever this latest misunderstanding – clear it up – sort it out – or learn to ignore it – otherwise you will be left with nothing but regrets and memories.

I shiver.

For I know without him – without him, I will be cold.

 

 

I remember all the good times – so many, many good times.

The first time he touched me.

The times we waited until the boys were out of the way, had sex – friendly sex, no more, hands only, nothing else – on the sofa, and then – finished the wine.

The times in bed, talking, laughing. Oh, not laughing or talking about sex, not lovingly, but – it was good. Good to be – friends. Or whatever we were.

And recently – recently we were – at least, I thought we were – getting it right at last. Kissing – just kissing – sometimes for hours. Whispering words – words that I never thought could truly be said between us.

Confessions of foolishness, of hopes, of – of longings.

Of need.

Swimming – together – competing – as we always did, but – different somehow, knowing each wanted that moment of victory, but wanted more – the sweetness of touching again.  
Watching a film – not a particularly good film – but – for the first time, he shifted on the sofa, and I – I curled against him, his arm round me, and – it felt – good.

Silly things.

Things that I suppose most couples manage a bit earlier on, not only after quarter of a century.

Dancing.

Not out, never that, I wouldn’t expect that, but – at home, music on, as he always loves music on – and he isn’t as fussy as you might think – I suppose the three boys, and me, between us we have inured him to our hopelessly pedestrian tastes. But still, for choice, he puts on opera, and – after so long – I have become – used to it. I recognise arias. Could – almost – badly – sing along. 

I remember dancing to it though, his arms round me, not a real dance, I don’t know any, not even how to waltz, and he – he isn’t a good teacher. Never was. But – I could always follow where he led.

Sitting out in the sun.

He touching me – just gentle, elderly affection – but, and I suppose it sounds silly – it almost meant more than the wildest nights we never had – to have him be so in front of others.

Last time he came into the zoo – a meeting – not the first one since that so-memorable one which ended with my office door locked and our bodies reacquainted – he even walked with me to see the leopard cubs – hand in hand.

Well.

Hands touching. Brushing together.

Nearer than ever before.

In public.

Remembering, I try to smile – but – the tears, the ache, the awareness of time wasted, of misunderstandings still to be put right, is all too strong, too close.

 

 

Enough, I tell myself, you are at work, Caradhil, so work.

I begin to go through the emails.

Then I see one is from – well, from my boss.

Or possibly from my – what – lover, partner, fiancé?

For a moment, I simply look at it. There is no title – and I don’t know what to make of that. I can’t think why he would email me – he never does this. 

I know other people exchange emails all day – or texts – or even phonecalls – but we never have.

Legolas is more likely to text or mail or phone me from the other end of the park, from their home on an off-day, or indeed, simply from the outer office, than Thranduil from – from wherever he is.

I suppose other people would actually know that, as well. 

I used to, once. When I needed to – before mobiles – when I might have needed to contact him about the boys.

These days – well. Why bother?

Perhaps, it occurs to me, perhaps I am as much to blame for how we are as he is. I do not ask questions, I do not push for more than he offers – not in this, not in anything.

I should, I suppose.

But – so many years of being afraid – afraid that one step out of line and that will be the end. 

Yet – it seems that all those years, he has thought I – I swallow, even thinking the words hurts – I have been unfaithful. And he has not ended it.

I do not know what that means about us. 

Part of me wonders if – if it means he does indeed love me truly, if it means that – that he would be as lost without me as I without him.

Part of me thinks it means he has never listened to me even in these last months, when I thought all to be so perfect, that he does not know me at all.

Anyway.

I open the email. And, I find, I have been hoping against reason for – for something, something of an apology, an acknowledgement, some words of – of affection.

There is a list of dates that all three boys, and their families, can be there.

And an electronic signature.

Not even, I think slightly wistfully, a little “x”.

Stop being ridiculous, Caradhil. 

That is Thranduil. You know this. You never asked him to change, you cannot complain that he has not.

After all, in a way, he has – he is marrying you.

Stop being like the old woman in the story, always asking for more until the fish – or fairy – or whatever it was – sends her back to her vinegar bottle. Legolas always liked that story, I remember, I don’t know why. I always thought it sad.

Even as I am thinking this, still looking at the email, he comes bouncing in, hair flying, all enthusiasm and happiness, and bright eyes, and I – I cannot help but smile back. 

“Come on,” he says, chirpy, and – and well-loved, “Caradhil, we have a meeting with Events – and don’t you have some dates there for them? Everything is alright now, isn’t it? You kissed and made up, didn’t you?”

In the face of his optimism, I can only smile, and note the dates, and find my other notes, and listen to the stream of chatter about – about all the things that have happened in the last eighteen or so hours since I saw him, and what Gim said about any of them, and – and I don’t know what else.

Some things don’t change, I find.

The meeting – is as meetings are. 

Mostly.

Maybe I could take offence, were I different, but – it just strikes me as funny. 

The look on the faces of the others when I say that yes, actually, I do have a plan for the first wedding – now we have finally got the licence through – that it will be Thranduil and I. Yes. The owner. Yes, Legolas’ father. Yes, that Thranduil, yes, and me.

Legolas seething quietly, seeing homophobia, where I think in truth it is just – surprise.

After all, those who knew about us – and plenty did – I think only a couple, the new weddings girls – don’t say girls, Caradhil, they are women, only so young, to me – they obviously haven’t had time to absorb all the gossip – but the others – they knew we were together, had been for so long – why marry now?

It is a fair question, but one which no-one asks aloud, fortunately, since I have no answer.

Afterwards, Legolas turns to me, asks me to take his notes back – he has other things to do, animals to play with – we don’t call it that, but I know my little one, and as I turn to go, he says,

“Phone him, Caradhil. Phone him and tell him. Not just an email. It’s your wedding – aren’t you excited at all?”

I remember for a moment how he was before his wedding – all lit up, glowing, and I – I find I cannot bear to disappoint him.

“Of course,” I say, and then, “you forget how long we have been together though. I don’t suppose it will make any real difference to us.”

And the truth in that is what hurts.

He laughs, and says again,

“Phone him – just because you can,” before he bounces off somewhere, joyous and light-hearted, taking life as easy as ever.

I go back to my office, and – look at my phone.

Then I open the email he sent, and send a reply, giving the date and time. 

_We should probably sort out any other invites,_ I type, _and so on. Food, music, whatever. No real hurry._

After all, it won’t be a big occasion. Just a trial run for the team here, really.

Like I said to Legolas, I remind myself, it won’t make any real difference to anything.

I hesitate for a long moment, then add,

_Maybe we can talk later? C._

I find I cannot quite bring myself to be more affectionate. I want to, but – I don’t know how it will be received.

He doesn't answer.

 

 

The rest of the day is – just another day of work really.

Walking home, I feel my age. Twenty-four years I have been running this place – and – I am bored.

Terrible thing to admit, really.

I remember when I first came, how excited I was, what plans I had. I was young to get such an appointment – it was a small place, not quite struggling, but not doing well, that was why. So many plans, so many ideas.

Achieved most of them now.

Conservation programs in place, bigger collection, more species breeding successfully, better conditions for them – visitor numbers up, more repeat visits, regulars.

For a long time, it – the job – was just part of my life. Something that mattered, but had to be fitted round the boys, round home.

Now – somehow – there doesn't seem much else.

Listening to others, they seem to talk about this part of their lives as – as a chance to spend time together – no children at home, still – not young, but – fit, I suppose is the way to put it. Fit enough to do what we want – only – he doesn't want to go anywhere, do anything beyond work.

Vinegar bottle, Caradhil, I say to myself again.

You have him, he has said he loves you, he is going to marry you.

What more can you ask for – why are you never happy?

I don’t know.

I don’t know what is wrong with me.

I only know – I don’t want to go home, spend an evening waiting for him, have a cursory conversation about our days and – and go to bed, to sleep. Get up tomorrow, barely speak, go to work, and on, and on all week, until – until the weekend, and then, if I am lucky, and nothing else has come up – watch a film together, see the boys, or one of them, see the children, maybe – and on, and on.

I don’t know what else I want, what I crave – I just – oh, stop it.

Remember what you thought life would be, how bleak and empty it was when you left him – and be grateful for what you have.

You are not a teenager, not a young-married, you cannot expect to feel your heart race every time you see him, I tell myself.

But the problem – part of the problem – is that mine does. 

His – his, it seems, does not. He loves me, I do believe that, in his way.

Maybe it is being second time around.

Maybe it is being older.

Maybe it is simply – that is how he is.

 

 

I get home, and swim for over an hour, but it does not clear my head, nor leave me tired enough to care no more. As we have now established a custom – when I am hungry, I eat, when I am tired of my evening, I go to bed.

I do not wait for him – he does not need to phone to tell me.

I suppose it is – what – trust?

And the thought bites at me – because it has never – not once in all the years – crossed my mind to wonder if he had someone else – if he even would think of it. But he – he it seems, has assumed I – I play him false at every opportunity.

It is a long while before I sleep.

 

 

 

I wake alone, and I – I wonder how long this will go on this time. 

Another day, another day of work, of meetings, of animals, of chirpy Legolas to look forward to, I tell myself, and I dress, go downstairs to see if Thranduil has even come home.

He has.

I try to reach out – I try to hold him – to say something – to – I don’t know – make it better again, but – he is in a hurry, he has work to get to, why am I not watching the clock – why did I not wake him earlier?

He leaves, and once again, I walk into work, trying to convince myself this is just my imagination, just foolishness.

Legolas is not in work today – and I am glad of it. I don’t think I could stand the look in his eyes when he asks – and he will ask – what his father has said about the wedding date, what we have planned, what – oh, any of it. 

I don’t think I could stand the disappointment if I were to say – he hasn’t said anything, we haven’t spoken about it, I don’t know, I don’t – I don’t care.

Even thinking it shocks me.

How can I say I don’t care?

How can I say I don’t care about what is supposed to be the best day of my life?

Only – I don’t.

I stare at the computer screen, not seeing the emails, not concentrating on whatever it is I am being told by my assistant standing next to me.

Absently, I shake my head, and say not now, later, and he – I assume – looks at me, and reads something in my face, and goes.

The door shut, I open the email from Thranduil again, and stare at it.

Twenty-three years, I think, twenty-three bloody years, I have loved you, raised your boys, kept your house, cared for you, adored you and – and for all your sudden talk of love, of affection, you – you cannot even make an email about our wedding sound as though you care.

You think I lie to you, you think I lie with others.

You do not know me at all.

And – and this is what hurts the most – you cannot even bring yourself to apologise.

 

 

I don’t know how I get through the day, but I manage. 

Maybe I should give my assistant a raise, I think, absently, staring at the email again.

My fault, I tell myself, all my fault. I have accepted this for so long from him – he does not even know I am hurt. The once or twice I have tried to – to ask for more – he would say he has given it, and I suppose, by his lights, he has.

Only – why do I have to ask, to weep, to walk out – every time?

Or accept.

Is that the only choice?

Yes Caradhil, I think, it seems it is. You are too old – he is too old – to change the pattern of your life together.

And you know – he knows – you will not leave, not again. 

So, and I look at the time, pull yourself together, go home, and, whenever he gets in, whatever he is like, be nice, be loving, make everything as well as it can be.

That is who you are, how you are. 

Too late to change either of you now.

 

 

 

Again, I come home to an empty house, and I – I miss my Legolas, even the last few years, when he was really too old to still be at home, when I was starting to worry about him – I miss him. It occurs to me to wonder what he and Gim have planned for childcare, if – when – this adoption goes through. 

That would be nice, I think, a child around sometimes. 

Maybe.

The other boys aren’t close enough to bring theirs over regularly – oh, often, but not – not just dropping by, not as part of a routine. 

Then I remember how Thranduil spoke to him, to them, and I – I shake myself, don’t start counting on it, I think.

I swim again for a long while, I eat, I – in the end I give up waiting, and I go to bed.

I don’t sleep.

I thought I would, thought I was tired, but apparently not.

Things go round and round, over and over in my head. 

Eventually – and it must be nearer two than one – I hear the door, and I wait to see if he will come to me.

Please, I think.

But no.

And so – after long enough that it is clear he isn’t going to – I get up, and go to find him.

 

 

 

He is, of course, in his study. 

Not at the desk, but stretched out on the sofa.

Not working.

Not drinking – good.

Asleep.

I stand and look at him for a long while.

He looks – tired.

Old.

For the first time, I see it, he looks worn.

But still – so beautiful, to me, so wonderful, so – so close to perfection.

I am tempted to – oh, to throw myself on him, to cover him in kisses, to – I do not even know – to just hold and worship, and love – but – he doesn't want that. If he did, he would have come to bed.

But – I want – need – to be near him.

It’s a warm night.

I sit on the floor, very close, leaning against the sofa, my head near his hand, not quite touching, but – I can hear him breathe, and maybe – maybe if this – this which we have – isn’t perfect, maybe it’s enough.

I don’t want to be sent back to the vinegar bottle of my life without him.

I stay close, and, after a while, the sound of his breathing lulls me, and I sleep.

 

 

 

When I wake, I am cold, and I can hardly move, and I ache, and – and I am not so young as I was once – but – his hand is in my hair, just gently stroking, and – and I’m happy.

I shift, slowly, carefully, neck aching, back aching, and look up at him.

“Hello,” I say, not exactly inspired, but – what else is there to say?

He looks back, and raises an eyebrow,

“What are you doing there?”

He doesn't say – idiot – but he might as well.

I smile, because – I don’t care what he says. His hand tells its own truth, so gentle, so affectionate the untangling that I can feel happening.

“Being close to you,” I say, and then, “I don’t like sleeping alone. I love you. Do you still not understand that?”

He sighs, and his eyes drop away from mine. My heart sinks further as he takes his hand from my hair, and swings himself round to sit upright, uses his hands to comb out his own hair, and then stands.

Walks away, across the room.

Without meaning to, I slump, my eyes following his feet, still in yesterday’s socks, and – and why, I wonder, is that not more bothering? Because it is him, I suppose.

He pours something – early for alcohol, I think, vaguely, and then I hear him drink, before he says, 

“Still or sparkling?”

Water.

I look up, and he is indeed waiting for an answer.

“Still,” I say; I loathe sparkling, never in all my life with you have I drunk it, I don’t say.

After all, what is the point?

That he doesn't even bother to remember _that_ is hardly the way to start this conversation.

He nods, pours, and brings me a glass, then turns away, pulls aside the curtain and looks out of the window.

“Going to be sunny,” he says, and I nod, seeing suddenly years – maybe even two decades – if I am lucky – of such moments ahead of us. Moments when I want affection, and he just – doesn’t. Moments when he seems not to know me, not to have anything to say to me – and I – I comply.

I drink again, watching him, and then as he does not move, I pull my legs in and stand.

Too old to sleep on the floor, I think again.

“I had best shower, and dress,” I say, although I know perfectly well that I am not working today – at least, I am not supposed to be – I might.

After all, what else will I do?

“I am sorry,” he says, as I walk towards the door, and I stop.

“I am sorry for what I said – what I thought,” he repeats, and I turn, and look at him, but he is still staring out of the window, “it was stupid of me. I should have known better. You – of all things – you would not take risks with the health of the boys – with my health.”

It is not the reason I would have expected, or hoped, but – it is true.

I sigh.

“I am sorry,” he says again, “it was just – for so long – you seemed content with – with not much from me – and I knew you must have had more before, with others. It seemed the only way to make sense of it.”

Oh Caradhil, I think, your stupid acceptance has made so much worse.

“I am sorry,” and I don’t know what to make of this, this Thranduil who seems to have learnt a new word, “I – I am too old for such – I – new tricks are beyond me, I find.”

I think about this one for a moment, and then I understand.

“If you mean you didn’t like it,” I say, and he half-nods, “it doesn't matter. I always thought it would – that it mattered – but – it doesn't. The act means nothing. Only – I want – need – I don’t know how to put it. I love you, and – and I thought we were – closer – these days.”

I stop, fighting back the urge to shout, to let my pain out in anger – I am past tears now.

He turns, and I know what that costs him, how much he hates having to show his face, or look at another’s, at such a moment.

“I should not have said what I did to Legolas, either,” he says, and then, “I did not think how much it would hurt you until ‘Dwar told me off.”

You didn’t apologise that evening, I think, but then,

“That was why I – I tried – to give you what you wanted. Only – then I hurt you more. I am sorry, my star – forgive me?”

For a moment, I wonder if I can wring more confession out of him, more affection, but – I am not that cruel.

“Always,” I say, and the agony of it is that I mean it, “whatever. You know.”

And I walk towards his arms, blinding myself to the promise I have made once more.

What does it matter?

I am what I am.

He is what he is. 

I cannot change him.

I love him.

And, in his way, he loves me.

 

 

 

Later, he reaches for his phone, and – I try not to show my irritation – he speaks to his secretary,

“I am not coming in today,” he says, and I wait for the instructions, for the detailed discussion, but, “anything urgent – hand to ‘‘Thwon. Anything else – can wait. Tomorrow – “ he looks at me, and then, “are you working tomorrow?” I shake my head, because I am not, “tomorrow as well. The day after –“ I nod, and he brushes my nose with a finger, “the day after I will be in.”

I look at him, as he puts the phone down, and he laughs,

“We have a honeymoon coming up,” he says, “I had better get in practice. One thing I do want the same this time round – two weeks with no-one else. At all.”

I don’t know what to say.

Really?

Two days now?

And – and two weeks? Just us?

Like – like lovers do?

He strokes my face again,

“I love you, my star, and – oh look at you – the sparkle in your eyes at the thought of two weeks – is it really so surprising?” he sighs, “yes, maybe. Sorry.”

I don’t think I have ever heard him use that word so many times.

He pulls me close, and then buries his face in my hair,

“It would make it easier for me to learn – if you would ask,” he says, “how can I change – how can I ever get it right if you don’t ask? Love, we don’t have long – I know that – you know that – we have wasted too much of our time – you have to ask, to tell me when I am hurting you. I keep away at night when I am late, or if I think you want space – that isn’t right though, is it?”

I shake my head, still unable to speak.

“Why do you not say?”

Because I can’t change you – no-one can change someone else.

Because I know I left it too late to even begin to ask.

Because I love you so much, I cannot bear to make you see how you fail.

Because I am a fool, and I – I cannot change myself.

No.

Because I never tried to change myself, never saw my own faults – but – and I don’t say it, because I can’t, I am not that sort of man, not much more given to emotional outpourings than he, but – if you are prepared to try, maybe I can too.

Maybe it isn’t too late.

“Vinegar bottle,” I manage, and I should be grateful to Legolas’ childhood love of the story that he knows what I mean.

He sighs.

“I am not a fairy,” he says, and I – I laugh as I look up at him.

“Some people,” I begin, and he puts a finger over my mouth, “some people would say,” I try again, and he – he uses his hand, but I lick him until he pulls away, “some people would say that is exactly,” and this time, this time he leans forward and stops my words with a kiss.

Not a fairy, I think, no, as his hands travel over me, as I feel the kiss change from playful, to loving, to aroused and urgent.

My prince, you are my prince, you are everything, as I cling, and touch, and ask without words, and give, and adore.

But I don’t say it.

His ego is big enough already.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

It’s been a good day. 

No, more than that, almost perfect – as perfect as anything gets in this world.

Sunny, warm, no, gorgeously hot, and we have all of them home.

All the boys home – and not arguing, but no exaggerated good behaviour, just – getting along, the three of them, Gimli, ‘Dwar’s wife, and – and the kids. ‘Dwar and Jacinth have brought theirs, two girls and a boy, ‘Thwon has brought his, three girls, two boys. My star has things so well organised – the garden’s as perfect for kids to run about in as ever – and, once again, there was no whining, no arguments at lunch – so, this afternoon is – perfect.

Kids off, playing, the boys can hear them well enough to know they are alright, but not so well that we have to watch every word we say.

‘Dwar and ‘Thwon are – and perhaps this is something I can relax about at last, perhaps they are finally friends – amicably comparing apps on their phones or something equally banal, Legolas is, as ever, draped over Gimli, and – and not even letting himself hesitate, Caradhil has sat leaning against my leg, my hand running through, playing with his hair. Endlessly twiddling and twining at his wonderful hair, still after all these years so thick, so red, so alive, and his arm flung across my knees, relaxed.

I suppose it doesn't sound much – but – to me, it’s everything. 

Funny really, it seems such a big deal to me – and to him – yet, I don’t think they even notice. Which, of course, makes me wonder why we never – why I never – was brave enough before.

How much time we wasted.

Legolas is bubbling away about something – he’s been excited all day – and, of course, Legolas being Legolas, he can’t keep it quiet forever, he has to say it,

“Ada, Caradhil – your wedding – we might – it looks as though we’ll be Daddies by then – we saw our case-worker yesterday, and when we explained – well, even if it isn’t completely finalised, it should all be far enough on that we can bring them, introduce them.”

“If you don’t mind – if that would be ok, of course,” Gimli adds, always the one to think about how things should sound, and I am so relieved that despite all my worry, Caradhil pushed this relationship – he is a good lad, really.

“Lovely,” I say, before Caradhil thinks he need answer, thinks I am going to be so appallingly behaved as last time, “that would be wonderful, ion-nin, all the children there. Just – please – all of you – no matching outfits.”

They laugh, they know exactly what I refer to.

“Can’t see it,” ‘Dwar says, “the age range of them – just isn’t going to happen.”

But I am hearing Legolas’ words again,

“Them?” I ask, and he flushes.

“Yes,” he says, “she – the baby they wanted us to take – she has an elder brother – only three – and he is so sweet – and it has to be better to keep them together, surely – only, he does talk a lot, and – and he has nightmares – she is easy, easiest baby ever – completely gorgeous – but he – he’s a terror. Keeps Gim on his toes, but then – oh Caradhil, he just wants story after story, cuddle all the time. And – I just want to hold him and make everything all right for him.”

Caradhil nods, remembering.

“Animals,” he says, and as he continues I am ashamed of myself that I never realised all this, “that's what you needed. All those toys. Every one had a name, a personality. Every night we had to put them all to bed. Some in with you, some had their own places. You had to know where they were, were they safe, had to check them all. And the same stories, always, just to be sure the end was how you expected.” And then he asks something I also have been wondering about recently, “the old woman who lived in a vinegar bottle,” he says, “why did you love that so?”

Legolas shrugs, in that ‘I don’t like admitting to this one, but you’re not going to let me get away with it, are you?’ way.

“I like people to stay the way you expect them to be,” he says, and then he glances at me, before back at Caradhil, “and – I used to worry that you would rescue some animal, and it would be a prince, and you – you might go away – I wanted to know you would have to come back.”

Caradhil shakes his head,

“Oh my silly little one,” he says, and the rest of us are silent, watching the two of them, their eyes locked on each other, a bond I have never understood, of which I have always been a little jealous, between them, “didn’t you understand? I never would have left you. Any of you. I’m British remember – vinegar and chips is holiday food to me,” and as we laugh, he looks up at me, and I look at him, and he moves his hand, slowly, breathtakingly, up my thigh, and I – oh dear lord – I am suddenly, urgently, in need of him, of his touch, his kiss, his body against mine.

He smiles again, straight into my eyes, deep and real, and then gets up – leaving me cold, and wanting,

“On which note,” he says, “tea – and so on. Stay sat, I’ll do it.”

For a moment, long habit takes over, and I do indeed stay sat down as he walks beautifully across the grass to the house, half-listening as the boys talk on, as Legolas explains to Gimli that yes, Caradhil is British, technically, hasn’t been home in a long while, hence the almost lost accent; and I cannot stop myself from thinking of the moments he sounds most un-American. The moments when that gorgeous head is thrown back, his throat exposed, his breath coming hard and fast, the words he cries out then, the way he clings to me, and after, the kisses, the sweet kisses, and holding, and need that he shows.

Gimli is asking me something now, and I have to pull myself together to answer,

“No, his parents died long ago,” I say, and I hear how uncaring I sound, and realise we have never talked about it, “that was why he could afford to come out, spent a few years just – surfing, fooling around – ran through the money, had to start working. Hence the unskilled zoo job,” and as I always have at this point, not that I tell the story often, I smile, sharklike, “got myself a bargain. His résumé is – short. Empty. For a long while he would have found it difficult to get another job – so he believed,” I shrug, “point of fact, he is damn good, could have walked in anywhere, pretty much. We’d have been lost without him though.”

But I don’t want to sit here talking of him. 

I get up, and walk after him, hearing Gimli say, as I go, 

“Your father really is a piece of work, ‘Las, you know that?”

And my sons laugh – even as sweet Jacinth defends me.

But I care nothing for their opinion. I am in pursuit of my star.

I find him in the kitchen, alone, and I grab him, swing him round – catch his mouth with mine, and walk him backwards until he leans against the door, and he – he clings, as I hoped he would, he gasps and then is moaning into my mouth, urgent, loving, wanting, tasting so sweet, so good.

I am a lucky man, I think, even as I move from mouth to cheek, to ear, to throat, and he – he is bucking against me, and I think I have never felt anything better than this.

As good, yes, a long while ago, my beloved wife – our lovemaking was every bit as good.

But not better.

“Please,” he says, “please, Thranduil, please,”

I don’t know precisely what it is he wants, but I cannot resist teasing him,

“You had better be quiet,” I say, “or the whole pack of them will come running.”

“Oh god,” he says, and then I bite down on his neck, as I know he likes, and he shoves his fist against his mouth, muffling the noise he is making as I unzip him, and yes, he is hard and desperate, and I grind against him even as I touch him, as I bite him, and hold his head still, and he clings to me with the hand that isn’t desperately trying to keep his voice unheard.

Still moving hand and hips, I break the kiss, noticing the wonderful mark on him, and I say, very calm, 

“I love you, my Caradhil, and I want you to come, right now, right here, for me. Yes, now, come my love,” and he does.

I hold him upright, tidying him up, as he pants, and tenderly I kiss him again.

“I love you,” he says, “Love you so much, love you, love you.”

As though I might not realise.

But those days are over.

“I – you – you didn’t like – the other, but – how do you feel about blow jobs?” he asks, and for a moment I am shocked, but then he reads my hesitation correctly, and, “I’m not asking you for anything – I just – want – so much,” and before I can even start to say – this is the kitchen – the boys are outside – are you sure we will hear any of them before they come in?, he is down on his knees at my feet, and oh god, it must be a long while, you would think he would be out of practice, but apparently not.

Now it is my turn to need to keep quiet, only I am better at that than he, and so I can keep my hands in his hair – not pulling, not guiding, just wanting to touch, to hold, to let him know how much I love him. He is worryingly skilled, and oh dear god above, I was ready a while ago; it does not take long. I move to pull out, although that would probably be messier, but no, he does not let me, he swallows, and then rests his head against me, gently licking me clean.

“That's ok?” he asks, and I give a short laugh.

“More than ok,” I say.

Then we hear footsteps, and fortunately Caradhil has quick reactions – he has me tidied up, he is upright, and doing something intelligent with a kettle, even as I am still thinking that I do not want any of my sons to see us like this.

Legolas wanders in, 

“Oh, Ada, you are here,” he says, blankly, “I thought you would be working. I came to see if Caradhil needed help.”

“Not working,” I say, shortly, hurt that he should think – no, that is unfair, it would not be out of character for me to go off, leave Caradhil with it all to do. I have, I think, been a shit to him over the years. I am unreasonably lucky he has put up with it.

“Good,” and then, “are you two – is everything all right?”

Caradhil is still head down, hiding amongst the whatever-he-is-doing with teacups and cake plates, so it seems to be for me to answer.

“Yes, Legolas,” I say, and I find I am almost laughing, “yes, we two are very well indeed. Everything is – is more than alright. Now carry something, help Caradhil. I think he’s a bit – wobbly – right now.”

And poor Legolas looks from one of us to the other, his eyes round as he sees the mark from my teeth blossoming on Caradhil’s neck, and he looks at me, where I stand, still not quite tucked in right, my hair also disarrayed, and the poor boy flushes. I raise an eyebrow daring him to speak. Caradhil himself is giggling now, and if it weren’t for the rumours he has told me of what those two get up to, I would be feeling guilty for doing this to my son – it must be almost the worst thing for any child, however old – but as it is, I am just so pleased to see my star so happy that I do not care.

For once, for once we are getting things right.

Late, perhaps, and I think of the doctor’s appointment I haven’t yet told him of, and the reason why, and I think I am glad we don’t have long to wait until this wedding, and I know I have been so lucky to see all the grandchildren, to see both ‘Dwar and Legolas so happily married, to, finally, get this between my Caradhil and I right. 

Whatever happens – I have had so much.

And, whatever happens, I trust my boys, all of them, but especially Legolas, to take care of my Caradhil.

Oh my sweet star, I think as I watch the two of them head back to the others, trayfuls of tea, and cake, and juice, and all the rest of it, deep in conversation, just as they always have been, absorbed in each other; oh my sweet star, there could never be long enough with you.

But still, I hope I am wrong, I hope this comes to nothing.

I would have, if I could, just a little longer.

He deserves more than he has had.

I sigh, and follow them out, bracing myself for more hours of sociability.

 

 

Eventually they go. Fond as I am of my boys, sometimes I could wish they would not stay so long. 

Except that it means a lot to Caradhil to see them, and the children.

I have a horrible suspicion that Legolas, not the most practical or empathetic child, is going to expect my star to pick up a lot of the childcare once these two siblings arrive. And I am confident Caradhil will be as unable to refuse as ever, which means, I suppose, I will have to be the harsh parent again.

Still.

That is all a matter for another time.

This evening I draw him into the living room, and ignore his protests about clearing up; honestly, I think, as though we don’t pay enough to the help to do such. 

“Dance with me,” I say, and I take his hand as I search for the track I want, “and concentrate. I daresay Legolas will never let us hear the end of it if we do not have an official first dance, so you had better, finally, learn to waltz.”

He flushes, looks down at his feet, 

“No, look at me,” I say, and he does, his eyes shining, even as he bites his lip in concentration.

How anyone so graceful, so physically beautiful, so in tune with himself can be so hopeless at this I do not know, but he is.

“Hands here,” I say, trying for patience, “and just follow. It really is not as difficult as you make it.”

“I know,” he says, “I – sorry – I – it doesn't matter. About a dance, I mean, I don’t mind.”

I know he does, very much.

“I do,” I say, because I know he will do anything if I ask it for myself.

“Think of it as making love to music,” I say, and watch his breath falter, “trust me. Close your eyes, and trust me.”

“Always,” he says, leans in, and, finally, he relaxes, and moves with me, against me as the music plays.

And maybe we are too old to be so foolish, maybe we have wasted too much of our time, maybe there isn’t much longer. 

Maybe for all the plans, there won’t be a wedding.

I don’t know.

But at least we have this, now, this evening, this dance, this perfection, the two of us spinning, slowly, locked together, the music playing, lights low. He looks up at me, and smiles, and I smile back, and it feels like forever.

 

 

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin  
Dance me through the panic ‘til I’m gathered safely in  
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove  
Dance me to the end of love

Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone  
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon  
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of  
Dance me to the end of love  
Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on  
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long  
We’re both of us beneath our love, we’re both of us above  
Dance me to the end of love.

**Author's Note:**

> .
> 
>  
> 
> Title, and ending - from the song  
> Dance Me to the End of Love, by Leonard Cohen.


End file.
